


Pretty When You Cry

by dr_girlfriend



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Crying During Sex, Deaf Character, Deaf Clint Barton, Fraction/Aja Comic!Clint Barton, M/M, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Pure Smut, SHIELD Agent!Clint Barton, War Veteran!Bucky Barnes, deaf!clint barton, mandatory funday, no powers au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-05-13 04:03:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19243453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_girlfriend/pseuds/dr_girlfriend
Summary: “Someone hurt you, Clint?”It’s so surprising Clint almost spills his drink on the way to his mouth.  Maybe not so much the question, because much as he’s trying to hide it Clint probablydoeslook beat to hell, but more the soft, gentle way the guy asks it.  Like he really cares about the answer.  Cares aboutClint.For a moment Clint feels himself teetering on the edge — the horrors of the mission clogging up his throat as if they are going to come spilling out in a tearful confession to the first fucking stranger who’dasked.He claws it back, biting his tongue hard to keep it still.  He smiles instead, even though he’s sure the smile comes out a little twisted.“Not as much as I hurt ‘em back,” he finally says, and that’s just enough truth to settle his stomach a little.Bucky nods as if that’s good enough for him, and takes a long, thoughtful pull of his beer.  Clint watches his throat work, the way those plush lips wrap around the bottle.  He hopes to hell he hasn’t blown this already.Bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sets his empty bottle deliberately on the bar.  “Okay,” he says.  “You got a place?”





	1. Clint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts).



For the Mandatory Funday Prompt (a Matt Fraction quote):

Clint wakes up a few minutes shy of midnight, sweaty and shaky.  His throat is hoarse, and dammit if he’s been screaming in his sleep again he owes Simone one hell of an apology for waking her kids up.

He glares at the clock, and then at the ceiling, and then at the clock again for at least ten minutes before he admits to himself he’s not getting back to sleep anytime soon.  His fault for crashing into his bed in the middle of the afternoon, but the mission had been rough. Even the ones he had managed to save would never be the same again. It had taken weeks of mind-numbing stakeout and then the final push — two days of no sleep, running on pure adrenaline, caffeine, and a stubborn unwillingness to die.  Seven hours is not nearly enough to make up for it, especially as restless as his sleep had been, but apparently it’s the best he’s gonna get.

He feels edgy and raw.  He wishes Lucky were here, but Katie-Kate was watching him while Clint was on mission, so he won’t be back until tomorrow.  Clint thinks about turning on the television, but he knows he’s in one of those moods where that’ll make the loneliness worse.  Still, the apartment is too quiet. He reaches for his hearing aids, slipping them in, and suddenly the street noise outside is too loud.  The fucking city that never sleeps on a Saturday night, and people are just getting started — hitting the bars and clubs, going out on the town.

Maybe that’s what he needs.  Not a club or a bar, not really, but those places are just a means to an end anyway.  Maybe what he needs is a warm body to lose himself in. Something to fill his head that might push out the horrors he had just seen.  Someone to make him feel something beyond the ache in his bones and the soreness in his muscles.

 _Luke’s_ is open until 2.  He gets up, ignoring the bruises that protest the movement, and hits the shower.

* * *

 _Luke’s_ is still lively, people making the most of the hour before last call.

Clint does an instinctive sweep of the bar, checking for threats and exits, and then a second sweep, looking for likely prospects.  

He’s dressed in his tightest shirt and the jeans that make his ass look fantastic, hoping that in the dim light that’ll be enough for someone to overlook the two-week stakeout-beard he was too lazy to shave, the dark circles under his eyes, and the fresh row of sutures disappearing into his hairline.

There’s two women at the bar who spotted him the moment he walked in.  One or both of them look like they’d be up for it. They look soft, and a little sweet.  Maybe too sweet for the mood he’s in tonight.

There’s a guy leaning against the side of the bar.  He’s got a bit of a Eurotrash look to him — shirt unbuttoned halfway and a gold chain resting against his hairy chest.  He’s definitely looking, but when Clint looks back his lips twist derisively. And, no, Clint doesn’t want sweet, but he doesn’t want someone who’s gonna get off on hurting him either.

A gleam of metal catches his attention at the other end of the bar.  It’s not a gun or knife, though, just — strangely enough — a metal hand.  Huh. That’s something new, but tech is changing all the time, and Clint knows better than to think he’s keeping up.

He’s been staring a beat too long, and when he looks up the guy attached to the hand is looking back, his eyebrows raised in a bit of a challenge.  He’s sitting with his back against the wall, something in his posture a little guarded, and Clint adds that and the hand together and comes to the conclusion of ex-military.  

And, fuck, but he’s pretty — long dark hair falling in his face, lips made for sin, and eyes such a clear slate blue that Clint can see them all the way across the dim bar.  The guy drags his gaze down Clint’s torso, slow and deliberate, and — yeah. That’ll do.

* * *

“Buy you a drink?”  And, okay, it’s a cliche, but Clint never saw the need to be creative.  Hopefully they both know what he’s really asking.

“Sure,” the guy agrees, and Luke is already setting them up — Clint’s usual double whiskey and another beer for the guy.  

“Bucky,” the guy says, tipping his beer toward Clint in a half-hearted toast.

“Clint.”  

This close up the guy’s — _Bucky’s_ — eyes are almost a little too keen.  Clint can see them marking the cut at his temple, the circles under his eyes — even the cracked rib that Clint didn’t think his posture was showing.  Clint’s wearing the tiny flesh-colored in-ear hearing aids he wears on ops, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the guy’s noticed them too.

The scrutiny is a little too much for the way he’s feeling right now, so Clint leans his elbows back against the bar, scanning the crowd so he doesn’t have to watch while the guy looks his fill.

“Someone hurt you, Clint?”

It’s so surprising Clint almost spills his drink on the way to his mouth.  Maybe not so much the question, because much as he’s trying to hide it Clint probably _does_ look beat to hell, but more the soft, gentle way the guy asks it.  Like he really cares about the answer. Cares about _Clint_.

For a moment Clint feels himself teetering on the edge — the horrors of the mission clogging up his throat as if they are going to come spilling out in a tearful confession to the first fucking stranger who’d _asked_.

He claws it back, biting his tongue hard to keep it still.  He smiles instead, even though he’s sure the smile comes out a little twisted.

“Not as much as I hurt ‘em back,” he finally says, and that’s just enough truth to settle his stomach a little.  

Bucky nods as if that’s good enough for him, and takes a long, thoughtful pull of his beer.  Clint watches his throat work, the way those plush lips wrap around the bottle. He hopes to hell he hasn’t blown this already.

Bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sets his empty bottle deliberately on the bar.  “Okay,” he says. “You got a place?”

* * *

They’re already kissing by the time they stumble through the door, which is probably a good thing.  Clint doesn’t bring people back to his place, as a general rule, and he’s likely to get some questions about the sheer number of weapons scattered around the room if the guy gets a good look.

Bucky doesn’t seem curious in the least, though — he’s interested, it seems, only in kissing Clint so slow and deep and thorough that it’s making his legs a little unsteady.

“Bedroom,” Clint murmurs into Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky makes a noise of agreement, letting himself get herded down the hallway, walking backwards and grinning against Clint’s mouth the whole time.

Clint finds himself grinning back.  He can’t think of the last time a hookup was _fun_ , instead of just rough and urgent.  

Clint gets his hands under Bucky’s shirt, and Bucky helps him pull it over his head.  Clint is a little surprised to see that it’s not just the hand — his whole left arm and shoulder are metal, and it’s probably weird that Clint finds it as sexy as he does.

Bucky skims Clint’s t-shirt up as well, and Clint shivers at the drag of metal fingers over his skin.

Bucky freezes in place, Clint almost tripping over his feet before he realizes.

“I can just use the right one,” Bucky says, and Clint blinks a few times before he catches his meaning.

“No, it felt good,” Clint explains.  He pulls Bucky’s hand down from where it’s hovering uncertainly in the air and presses it back against his ribs.  “I like it.”

Bucky’s smile is slow and heartbreakingly sweet, and it makes Clint’s stomach flip.  Clint pulls his own shirt the rest of the way off and pushes in close again, desperate to taste that beautiful smile.  

By the time they make it to Clint’s bed they have both stumbled out of their pants.  Clint is hopping from foot to foot, pulling off his socks as Bucky falls back against the rumpled sheets, laughing at him.

“Oh, fuck you,” Clint says without heat.  He finally gets the sock off and knee-walks onto the bed to hover over Bucky.

“If you like,” Bucky returns easily, and — wow, that’s not something Clint was expecting.

“Really?” Clint asks, stupid in his surprise. “Do you?  Like it, I mean?”

“Wouldn’t offer if I didn’t.”  Bucky’s eyes are crinkled with humor.  “Long’s I can be on top, set the pace,” he adds.  “It’s been awhile.”

“Yeah,” Clint breathes.  “ _Fuck_ , yeah.”  

He rolls to the side, scrabbling in the drawer, throwing lube and a strip of condoms on the bed.

Bucky’s laughing at him again, but Clint doesn’t give a fuck.  Yeah, he’s not playing it cool, but he wants this — hell, he _needs_ this.

Bucky seems just as eager even if he’s hiding it better, his right hand trembling a little as he rips open the condom wrapper as Clint wriggles out of his purple boxers.  Bucky’s more stylish, in tight black boxer-briefs that cling to his hardening cock in a way that makes Clint’s mouth water.

“Can I blow you while I prep you?” Clint blurts out, and Bucky accidentally puts his metal thumb through the condom he’s unwrapping.

“Oops,” Clint grins, not even trying to hide how smug that makes him.  “Good thing we got plenty.”

Bucky throws a condom at his head but Clint catches it easily with a smirk.  Then Bucky is peeling off his own boxer-briefs and Clint can’t think about anything else except how his dick is just as pretty as the rest of him, and how much he wants to get his mouth on it.

He comes up for one last kiss and Bucky gives way easily, letting Clint guide him onto his back.  Clint kisses his way down that long pale throat he admired in the bar and Bucky tilts his head back, giving him full access.  Clint detours to suck and lick at each nipple on his way, and then he’s cupping Bucky’s cock in reverent hands, just appreciating for a moment that the hottest guy he’s ever seen in his life is currently in his bed.

Bucky hitches his hips up just a little, an involuntary little push so Clint’s palms slide against the velvet-soft skin of his cock, and they both groan.  Clint snaps back into action, smoothing the condom on and swallowing Bucky down in one easy motion.

“Shit,” Bucky says.  His hand finds Clint’s hair — not pulling or pushing, just touching, ghosting Clint’s movements as if he needs to feel what he’s seeing.  “You’re fucking amazin' at that,” Bucky murmurs, and Clint knew that already, but something about hearing it from Bucky feels good, settling warm in his chest.  

And, okay, maybe Clint is motivated by a little praise, because he gets so into it — the heft and thickness of Bucky’s cock in his mouth, working his tongue and throat just right to make Bucky squirm and huff out little helpless sounds — that he almost forgets he has another agenda here.

It’s Bucky who finally reminds him.  “Slow down,” he warns, his warm palm cupping Clint’s jaw, drawing him gently off.  “I wanna come on your cock,” Bucky adds, as Clint gasps in a few breaths against Bucky’s hip.  “You want me to prep myself?”

“No — shit, sorry, no.  I got distracted,” Clint says, and when he looks up Bucky’s eyes are crinkled again.

“I’m not complainin’,” Bucky says, handing Clint the lube.  Clint pops the cap and slicks up his fingers. The first goes in easy enough, but Clint feels Bucky tense up and then breathe through it.  He probably wasn’t kidding when he said it had been awhile.

Clint _can_ be patient, though, when he has a mission at hand, and currently his mission is to make Bucky feel as good as he possibly can.  So he takes his time, teasing Bucky with little kitten-licks to his cock and mouthing the heavy weight of his balls until the second finger slides in easy.  Then Clint skims the edge of his prostate, using his thumb to rub where Bucky is stretched around Clint’s fingers until he’s begging for more.

By the time Clint is fucking into Bucky with three fingers, slow and methodical, they are both probably a little too close to the edge.  Clint takes a moment to look up and just appreciate the view. Bucky’s head is thrown back, a delicate flush washing from his cheeks down to his chest.  The metal arm is over his head, gripping the pillow. He’s so fucking beautiful that Clint has to reach down, squeezing the base of his own cock so he doesn’t come too soon.

When he opens his eyes again Bucky’s looking right at him, a soft kind of smile on his lips.

“My turn,” Bucky says, pushing on Clint’s shoulder until he rolls to his back.  Then Bucky’s smoothing the condom on Clint. He pops the cap on the lube, and then holds the metal hand up in question.

“Fuck.  Yeah,” Clint breathes, and then slick metal fingers are squeezing up and down his shaft, forcing the air from his lungs in a high whine.

“I can’t believe you’re into it,” Bucky says, and he sounds so happy about it that Clint can’t even be embarrassed.

“You’re fucking beautiful, every part of you,” Clint blurts out, and — oh, Bucky is smiling again, at the same time he eases back, letting the head of Clint’s cock nudge against where Clint had worked him so soft and open.

Clint’s hands find Bucky’s hips, holding on for dear life, as Bucky slowly takes him in, an inch at a time, working himself down with little rocking movements until Clint is settled as deep as he can go.

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Clint says.  He’s afraid to move, Bucky feels so fucking good — tight and hot and squeezing him just right.  Clint is gonna come like a teenager if he doesn’t get a grip.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, and then he’s moving, those amazing thighs of his flexing as he rides Clint, slow at first and then faster.

At first it’s all Clint can do to not come — lying there stupidly awestruck at the sight of Bucky, the way he's working himself on Clint’s cock like it’s his personal sex toy.  His eyes are closed, head thrown back, and he looks like he’s fucking _loving_ this.

Eventually Clint gets with the program, though — he braces his feet so he can meet Bucky with a sharp thrust up on every downstroke, at the same time as he traces his hands up those fucking amazing thighs, feeling the muscles flex beneath his palms.

“Can — unfh — can I take this off?” Clint manages when he gets a hand on Bucky’s dick, thumb rubbing up under the edge of the condom.  “Will you — _fuck_ , Bucky — I want you to come on me.”

“Yeah.”  Bucky shivers, even without breaking pace.  “Jesus, yeah.”

Clint rolls the condom off with one hand, licking the palm of the other.  Then he’s got a grip on Bucky’s cock, wet with spit and precome, and he can feel Bucky clench around him with pleasure.

“Good?” Clint asks anyway, thrusting up harder despite the screaming of his cracked rib, working for it, determined to make this as good for Bucky as it is for Clint.

“Amazing.”  Bucky leans forward, and something about the angle seems to make it even better.  He seems almost desperate now, fucking up into Clint’s tight grip and down on his hard cock in jerky, erratic movements.

And then, to Clint’s surprise, Bucky is taking Clint’s face in his hands, cool metal and warm skin bracketing his cheeks.  He looks directly into Clint’s eyes, that beautiful grey-blue almost swallowed by his blown pupils. “You’re _perfect_ ,” Bucky says.

It’s so unexpected, so fucking _sincere_.  For some reason it’s _that_ , of all things, that throws Clint headlong into orgasm.  Harsh, desperate noises escape him between every hitching breath, pleasure blooming at the base of his spine, spreading through his cock and balls, outward to the very tips of his numb fingers where he’s still managing to stroke Bucky’s beautiful cock.

It seems just enough, too, as Bucky suddenly shudders, his whole body fluttering and clenching around Clint’s cock.  Clint tries to coax every last sensation from him as Bucky paints stripes across Clint’s abdomen, spilling over his hand, hips finally coming to a slow, stuttering stop.

There's a moment of content silence, and then —

“Oh,” Bucky whispers.  “Oh, _shit_.”

Clint can barely get his eyes open, but he forces himself to, because that — that didn’t sound good.

“Wazz’ wrong?” he manages to slur.  “Did we break anoth’r condom? ‘Cuz ’m clean —”

“No.”  Bucky is easing himself gently off Clint, and damn, that shouldn’t leave _Clint_ the one feeling so empty inside.  “It’s just — are you okay?”

Clint is confused as hell, is what he is.  “Yeah. ‘Course. Why?”

Bucky is still sitting on Clint’s thighs, looking down at Clint.  He looks a little — _alarmed_ — and Clint wonders if he busted open the sutures or something.

“It’s just —”  Bucky bites his lip, and damn that’s so sexy that Clint’s limp cock twitches a little.  Bucky peels the condom off and ties it off. Then he takes the corner of the sheet and gently wipes down Clint’s belly.  

“Um,” Bucky finally says when he runs out of things to do, apparently. “You’re — you're _crying_.”

“I’m —?” Clint starts, but he touches his clean hand to his cheeks and — shit, yeah, he is.  

“Oh,” he says.  He feels a slow embarrassed flush rising up into his cheeks.  “I’m sorry. Yeah, that’s weird.”

He kind of expects Bucky to vault out of bed and start pulling his clothes back on, but he settles down at Clint’s side instead, wrapping one arm around him.

“I don’t mind,” Bucky says.  “As long as — it was good?”

His voice sounds uncertain, so different from the confidence he’s shown to this point.

Clint is already nodding like an idiot.  “Yeah, fuck. It was _great_.”

And — oh, _fuck_.  He can feel a few more tears trickle down his cheeks.  What the fuck is _wrong_ with him?

“I’m sorry,” he says again, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to see whatever judgment is on Bucky’s face.

“Hey.”  Bucky’s voice is soft.  He pulls Clint’s head onto his shoulder.  “I don’t buy into that toxic masculinity bullshit. If you needta cry, you needta cry.”  He wraps both arms around Clint, skin and metal, and fuck but that feels good. Solid, and grounding.

And before Clint even realizes it, he _is_ crying.  He tries to keep it quiet, tries not to be a baby about it, but he can feel the tears pooling under his cheek where it’s resting against Bucky’s chest, can hear his own wet-sounding breaths.

By the time he’s done he feels weirdly empty — kind of floaty, and light.  He feels like he should be embarrassed, but his head is too full of air. Bucky’s arms feel like the only thing holding him in place.  He pulls in a few steady breaths, in and out. He’s matching Bucky’s breathing, he realizes, and Bucky has been tracing soothing circles on his back.

“M’sorry,” Clint mumbles again.

“Don’t worry about it.”  Clint feels something that might have been Bucky’s lips, pressed for just a moment against the top of his head.  “D’you think I made it through losin' this arm without cryin’ every now and again? Sometimes you just gotta.”

Somehow it’s just what Clint needs to hear.  Bucky isn’t just being tolerant, he actually _understands_.  He’s not gonna judge.

Bucky slides out of bed, and Clint tries not to clutch after him, to draw him back.  Shit, Bucky’s already given him more than a hookup could ever be expected to give — not just mind-blowing sex, but dealing with all of Clint’s shit afterwards.  It's stupid to hope for even more.

He turns on his side so he doesn’t have to watch Bucky go.

To his surprise the bed dips again.  He opens his eyes, and Bucky’s there.  He has a warm washcloth, and he’s wiping Clint’s face, and then his belly, and finally his hand, tenderly tracing each finger with the washcloth.

Clint just watches, his brain filled with static.

“Do you want me to go?” Bucky asks when he's done.

Clint can’t even process the question.  “You can,” he says.

“I know I _can_."  He reaches out, smoothing the hair back from Clint’s forehead, fingers gentle around the sutures.  “But here’s something else I can do. I can stay here with you tonight. I can take you for breakfast in the morning.  And if we still like each other after that, I can put my number in your phone before I leave. Because I think you’re a good thing, Clint, and I’ve learned not to let go of good things so easy.  And maybe I could be a good thing for you too. What do you think about that?”

Clint blinks, but Bucky’s still there.

“I think I died on that mission,” he says.  “Because you gotta be an angel.”

Bucky smiles, and it’s just as heart-stopping as the first time.  Clint thinks that he’s never gonna get used to it, but maybe — just _maybe_ — he’ll get the chance to try.


	2. Bucky

Bucky slides onto the barstool and orders a beer, buying himself some time.  He knows Stevie will be waiting up, wanting to hear how the blind date went. Bucky can already see how his face will drop, disappointment shading his eyes before he starts in with the pep talk.  “He just wasn’t the guy for you,” or “At least you put yourself out there,” or some other version of the endless refrain.

And Steve means well, he really does, but he doesn’t know what it’s like.  _He_ wasn’t the one at the table, watching the conversation lapse because the guy was too distracted sneaking surreptitious glances at Bucky’s prosthesis to concentrate on what they were talking about.  Steve isn’t the one who had to smile and pretend that everything was fine when Bucky’s metal fingers accidentally brushed his date’s arm and the guy recoiled like he’d been burned.

In the end Bucky was relieved when the guy made a quick exit, mumbling something about a work emergency.  

He still feels hollow inside, though, the relief all twisted up with bitterness and anger.  He can’t face Steve like this, he’ll snap and say something he’ll regret, so he's been walking the city streets for a couple of hours, hoping his black mood will fade.  It still hasn't, though, and finally he ducks into the first dive bar he finds on the way home. 

It’s coming up on 1 a.m., so the bar’s not too crowded, although there’s still a fair number of people making the most of the hour before last call.  With his back to the wall and his eye on the door Bucky actually manages to relax a little. He can almost imagine that he’s just on leave, still whole and healthy, visiting some off-base dive to catch a little R&R.  

Maybe that’s the problem, he muses.  He never really dated much, even before that IED turned him into the mess he is now.  He hooked up plenty, though, and maybe that’s what he should be trying for. Something quick and dirty — no time for someone to ask a lot of questions.  Maybe it’ll be easier for someone to ignore the metal prosthesis for one night than to tolerate the idea of a whole future with it.

The door opens and, as if in answer to his prayers, a man walks in.  He’s fuck-off tall, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist, and arms that send a jolt of lust through Bucky’s belly.  He’s got a shock of blond hair and scraggly facial hair. From the dark circles under his eyes and the scruff Bucky would think that the guy is at the end of a three-day bender, but his sky-blue eyes are clear and sharp as they sweep the bar, a professional assessment that pings recognition in Bucky’s brain.  The guy is some version of military or law enforcement, and Bucky idly wonders if that would make him more or less amenable.

Not that it matters.  Bucky is just looking, really.  He’s gonna drink his beer and wonder about what those slim hips would do, but he’s not actually gonna act on it.  The guy’s probably straight anyway, his eyes lighting on the two women at the bar drinking appletinis, and Bucky’s had his fill of rejection tonight.

But then the guy’s eyes move on.  Bucky sees him sizing up a man next, eyes taking in his open shirt and thick torso.  Bucky feels a spike of jealousy and turns away, taking another sip of his beer. It doesn’t matter to him who the guy goes home with.

He can’t help himself though — it’s only a moment or two before he looks back.  To his surprise the guy is looking right at him — or at his metal hand, at least.  And Bucky is used to stares by now, of course he is, but there’s something a little different in this guy’s expression.  It’s not revulsion, or even frank curiosity. More just a keen appraisal.

Bucky leans back.  The guy raises his eyes from Bucky’s hand to his face, and he has the grace to seem a little embarrassed that he was caught looking.  Bucky raises his eyebrows in question, and then — he doesn’t know what he’s thinking, doesn’t think about it at _all_ actually — he just decides to take a chance.  He drags his eyes deliberately, slowly, down from the guy’s broad shoulders, past the trim waist and the lean thighs.  As close to an invitation as he can manage.

And — _shit_ , it seems to have actually worked.  Bucky takes a quick sip of his beer to cover his surprise as the guy makes his way towards him.

“Buy you a drink?” the man asks, and if Bucky wasn’t still so flustered he would roll his eyes at the cliche.  

“Sure,” he manages, and the bartender is already setting them up — another beer for Bucky, and a double whiskey for the guy.  He must be a regular.

Bucky takes the new beer, even though his last one isn’t really empty yet, just for something to do with his hands.  He raises it in an awkward half-toast. Christ, but he’s rattled. He never actually expected the guy to call his bluff.  How does this go again? That’s right, names first.

“Bucky,” he says.

“Clint,” the guy offers back. 

This close he seems even taller— he's probably six foot four easy — but he holds himself in a nonthreatening way that probably comes from long practice, hiding his height with a slump against the bar.  He flinches a little as his body settles into the curve, and Bucky can see that he’s holding himself a little carefully on the left side, like he’s got some bruising or maybe even a cracked rib or two.  In addition to the dark circles under his eyes, this close Bucky can see that he’s got a laceration as well, a line of neat stitches disappearing into the unruly hair.

And maybe Bucky’s read this wrong.  Maybe the guy’s looking for a trick, not a hookup.  Someone’s definitely been beating on him, and the thought of it makes something hot and angry settle in Bucky’s chest.  

The guy — Clint — seems uncomfortable with Bucky’s scrutiny.  He turns away, leaning his elbows against the bar and letting his eyes wander the room.  There’s a little flesh-colored plug in his inner ear — it seems almost too small to be a hearing aid, but he can’t imagine why the guy would have earplugs in.  The idea that this guy might be disabled too sparks a strange feeling of kinship. Bucky feels protective, ready to throw down with whoever put those marks on Clint’s body, and the words come out without forethought.

“Someone hurt you, Clint?”

The glass stutters on its way to Clint’s mouth, whiskey sloshing almost to the edge.  Clint’s eyes jump back to Bucky’s and for a second there’s an expression in them that Bucky can’t read — something dark and haunted, like Clint is going to tell him a story that will chill him to his bones.

It only lasts a moment, though, and then Clint seems to recover, his lips twisting in a brittle smile before he takes a sip of his drink.

“Not as much as I hurt ‘em back,” he finally says, and there’s the ring of truth to it.  

Bucky takes a long sip of his beer, thinking it through.  If the guy’s active military or law enforcement there’s good reasons why he might have been in an altercation.  As long as this thing with Bucky is his choice, that’s all Bucky cares about. And from the way the guy’s pretty eyes linger on where Bucky’s lips are wrapped around the mouth of the beer bottle...yeah.  He wants this.

Bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sets his empty bottle deliberately on the bar.  He shouldn’t overthink this. He hasn’t been with anyone since he was injured — he just needs to fucking get over that hump, and this guy couldn’t be making it easier for him.

“Okay,” he says.  “You got a place?”

* * *

Clint’s body feels as good as it looks, solid and warm underneath Bucky’s good hand.  It was a short walk from _Luke’s_ to Clint’s place, but Bucky could feel the anticipation growing, helped along not a little by his first glimpse of Clint’s frankly spectacular ass in those jeans.

By the time Clint gets the door open Bucky can’t wait any longer.  He leans in and Clint is just as eager — pressing hard into the kiss, opening up slick and wet under Bucky’s mouth.  Fuck, but it’s been two years since Bucky’s had this, and he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it. They stumble through the doorway because he can’t tear away for a second, feeling half-drugged by the wet press of Clint’s tongue, the feel of warm skin where Bucky’s good hand has sneaked under the waist of his tight t-shirt.

“Bedroom,” Clint murmurs into Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky makes some noise that he hope indicates agreement.  And then Clint’s big body is pressing forward, herding Bucky down the hallway, so eager that Bucky can’t help but grin against Clint’s mouth as he tries to keep his footing walking backwards.

And that’s unexpected — just looking at Clint Bucky knew that this would be hot, but he had no idea that it would be _fun_.  But Clint’s eyes are crinkled with amusement at the corners, so fucking cute that Bucky’s too distracted to be self-conscious when Clint gets his hands fully under Bucky’s shirt, palms brushing over the scars where the metal plates join skin.

Bucky helps him get the shirt off and then he’s reaching for Clint’s shirt too, skimming his hands up Clint’s sides.  He’s so eager to see what Clint has under that tight t-shirt that he’s fucking _forgotten_ about his prosthesis until Clint shivers at the feel of the metal fingers dragging up his skin.

Bucky freezes, his stomach swooping.  Clint is still pushing forward and he almost trips over Bucky’s feet before he realizes they’ve stopped, squinting down at him.

Bucky swallows, the words sticking in his throat.  “I can just use the right one,” he finally manages.

But Clint doesn’t look relieved, just confused, as if he can’t catch Bucky’s meaning.  Finally his eyes land on where Bucky’s metal hand is hovering uncertainly in the air, a few inches away from his skin, and his furrowed brow clears.  

“No, it felt good,” Clint explains, to Bucky’s immense surprise.  His big hand reaches out, long fingers and scarred knuckles, taking Bucky’s metal hand without hesitation and pressing it back against his skin.  “I like it,” he adds breathlessly, too eager to be a lie, and how the fuck could Bucky be so lucky?

Bucky feels the smile breaking across his own face, and Clint smiles in return, wide and guileless.  He pulls his own shirt off, throwing it aside. He’s pressing close again, recapturing Bucky’s lips, soft and sweet enough that Bucky is distracted from the greenish-yellow bruises along Clint’s left side.

He’s as careful as he can be as he works at Clint’s fly, though, and they are both pushing off their shoes before they are even through the bedroom door.  Clint is still fumbling out of those tight jeans while Bucky sits on the edge of the bed and strips off his socks, so Bucky is at leisure to just sit back and laugh at Clint as he hops from foot to foot, getting his own socks off.

“Oh, fuck you,” Clint says, although his eyes are bright with amusement.

Now that’s a thought.  If Bucky’s gonna get this chance he might as well make the most of it, and Clint’s been nothing but gentle with him so far.

“If you like,” he finds himself saying, and Clint freezes, surprise clear on his face.

“Really?” he asks.  “Do you? Like it, I mean?”

And, that’s kind of sweet, and Bucky’s more certain when he replies.  “Wouldn’t offer if I didn’t,” he points out. He realizes he might be getting in a little deep, though.  “Long’s I can be on top, set the pace,” he amends. “It’s been awhile.”  

“Yeah,” Clint breathes, looking at Bucky like he’s some kind of miracle.  _“Fuck_ , yeah.”

And then he’s diving for the side table, scrabbling in the drawer before throwing lube and a strip of condoms on the bed, so eager that Bucky can’t help but laugh.  But, yeah, Bucky is equally eager, his hand trembling a little as he rips open the condom. Clint’s wriggling out of a pair of ridiculous purple boxers, distracting Bucky with the prettiest cock he’s ever seen.  Bucky’s getting hard just imagining it inside of him.

“Can I blow you while I prep you?” Clint blurts out, and pure lust spikes through Bucky. 

Clint smirks. “Oops,” he says, and Bucky looks down to see that he’s put his metal thumb right through the condom.

“Good thing we have plenty,” Clint says, and damn but smug looks good on him, his lips quirked and his eyes bright, looking about as far as Bucky can imagine from the haunted moment in the bar.

Bucky throws a condom at Clint’s head, and he catches it without even looking.  Then he’s surging up for a kiss and Bucky lets Clint bear him down backwards to the bed, losing himself in Clint’s mouth again.  Clint kisses down Bucky’s neck, lips warm and scruff tickling. He licks and sucks carefully on each of Bucky’s nipples, and then he’s shouldering down further between his legs, cupping Bucky’s cock in his warm, callused palms.

He stops there, just staring for a minute, and Bucky can’t stand it.  Before he can stop himself he’s pushing up, feeling those warm palms slide smoothly against his cock, and they both groan.  Then Clint is smoothing the condom down and — fuck — swallowing Bucky down in one easy movement.

“Shit,” Bucky says, watching Clint’s lips stretched around his cock, his eyes closed in bliss as if this is all he’s ever wanted.  “You’re fucking amazing at that.”

And it’s true, even though it’s been awhile Bucky knows it’s never been as good as this, the warm suction of Clint’s mouth just perfect, his tongue swirling around the shaft as his throat works against the head.  It makes Bucky squirm, little noises escaping him, lost in both the sensation and the look of Clint, how much he seems to be getting off on this.

His hand is in Clint’s hair, fingers just ghosting the movement of his head to ground himself.  He doesn’t even know when he did that. He can feel the pleasure drawing tight, and it’s been too long and Clint is too damn good at this.

“Slow down,” he finally manages to get out, cupping Clint’s jaw to pull him up.  Clint is gasping, mouth wet and swollen against Bucky’s hip, and he’s the prettiest damn thing that Bucky’s ever seen.  “I wanna come on your cock,” Bucky reminds him. “You want me to prep myself?”

Clint blinks up at Bucky in confusion for a minute, before his cheeks flush a little.  “No — shit, sorry, no. I got distracted,” he says, and fuck but that’s endearing.  

“I’m not complainin’,” Bucky rushes to reassure him.  He hands over the lube, mouth watering at the way Clint’s long fingers look as he slicks them up.  He squirms a little, eager to get them inside.

Clint is slow and careful, though, starting with just one finger and taking time to let Bucky adjust.  Bucky tenses automatically — he hasn’t even done this to himself since he got hurt and at first it feels as weird as the first time — but Clint lets him breathe through it.  Then he’s taking Bucky apart just as thoroughly with his fingers as he did with his mouth, gliding them in smoothly at the same time as he ducks down again, teasing Bucky with little licks to his shaft, mouthing his balls.

It’s delicious torture and Bucky presses up into it, begging for more.  By the time Clint gets three fingers in him Bucky can barely remember his own name, can’t think of anything except how bad he wants Clint inside of him.  

Clint glides the rough pads of his fingertips across Bucky's prostate one more time, sending sparks up his spine, and then he stops.  Bucky opens his eyes, and Clint is giving him that look again, like Bucky is Christmas and his birthday all wrapped up in one.  He’s got his hand gripped around the base of his cock, like just taking care of Bucky with his mouth and fingers has got him so hot he can barely stand it, and Bucky realizes that he hasn’t even done a thing for Clint yet — hasn’t even touched his cock.

“My turn,” he says.  He pushes Clint to his back, and then smooths the condom on him.  He pops the cap of the lube with his good hand, but when he looks up Clint is actually looking at the metal one.  And — he can’t _possibly_....

Bucky holds up the metal hand in question, and Clint is nodding immediately.  

“Fuck.  Yeah,” Clint breathes, and before he can second-guess himself Bucky slicks up the metal fingers, sliding them up and down Clint’s cock with careful pressure.

Clint fucking _whines_. 

“I can’t believe you’re into it,” Bucky says in wonder.  He’d started the evening thinking that no one would ever touch him again because of that thing, and somehow he’s managed to find the one guy who thinks it’s a fucking _turn-on_.

“You’re fucking beautiful, every part of you,” Clint says in a sincere rush, and — Jesus.  He’s so damn sweet, and Bucky is going to fuck him so goddamn good.

He eases back, letting the head of Clint’s cock breach him.  Clint’s big hands are gripping his hips hard, helping to steady him as he works himself down.  Clint is big and it’s been awhile, but he’s worked him so soft and open that it just feels good — a satisfying stretch and fullness until Clint is filling Bucky as deep as he can go.

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Clint says.  His eyes are bright, his cheeks flushed, and Bucky wants to take him _apart_.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees as he starts to ride Clint, slow at first and then faster.  It feels so good, so _right_ , and Bucky throws his head back, closing his eyes, focusing on the way Clint feels inside him, hot and thick and rubbing him just right.

Clint braces his feet, pushing up with a sharp thrust on every downstroke, his hands tracing up and down Bucky’s thighs.

Then Clint’s warm hand is sliding up, his thumb rubbing up under the edge of the condom.  

“Can — unfh — can I take this off?” Clint huffs.  “Will you — _fuck_ , Bucky — I want you to come on me.”

“Yeah.”  Bucky shivers, his whole body clenching down at the thought of it.  “Jesus, yeah.”

And Clint is so fucking dexterous, rolling off the condom with one hand as he licks the palm of the other.  His hand closes around Bucky’s cock, slick with spit and precome, and Bucky clenches again.

“Good?” Clint asks, and Bucky’s throat is so tight with pleasure he can’t even answer for a moment.  

“Amazing,” he finally manages.  He leans forward, careful of Clint’s bruised ribs, and the angle is just right, lighting him up from the inside.  

It’s almost _too_ good, Clint’s grip hot and tight, his cock hard and full inside of him.  Bucky is so close now, and he’s suddenly overwhelmed by emotion, lust and gratitude and affection crashing over him like a wave.

Before he realizes it he has Clint’s face in his hands, skin and metal pressed to either side of his scruffy cheeks.   “You’re _perfect_ ,” Bucky says, lost in the clear blue of Clint’s eyes.

Clint makes a soft, punched-out noise, his beautiful eyes widening, and then he’s coming, thrusting up erratically into Bucky as his back bows, his breath hitching.

His hand tightens on Bucky’s cock and that’s enough to push Bucky over too, his whole body clenching down hard on Clint’s cock as he spills across Clint’s amazing abs, and then over his long fingers where he’s still stroking Bucky’s cock.

It’s so fucking good that Bucky whites out for a minute, lost in the sensation, hips still churning through the aftershocks before he finally slumps to a stop. He slowly comes back to himself.  Clint is still twitching inside of him as Bucky raises his head.

His stomach drops, ice blooming in his chest.

“Oh,” Bucky says.  “Oh, _shit_.”

There are tear tracks on Clint’s face, more tears welling up at the corners of his closed eyelids as Bucky watches.  

Bucky had thought it was good — had thought it was _great_ — what the _fuck_  did he do wrong?

He braces, expecting Clint to berate him about whatever he’s fucked up, but Clint’s brow just furrows in confusion, wet eyes blinking open, his eyelashes starry with tears.

“Wazz’ wrong?” he slurs.  “Did we break anoth’r condom?  ‘Cuz ’m clean —”

“No.”  Bucky isn’t sure what to do here.  He eases himself gently off Clint. “It’s just — are you okay?”

Clint just blinks up at Bucky, another tear falling free from his lower lashes.  “Yeah. ‘Course. Why?”

Bucky just sits on Clint’s thighs, not sure what to think.  “It’s just —” he starts, and then stops, biting his lip. Clint’s limp cock twitches a little, drawing Bucky’s attention, and Bucky is glad of the momentary distraction.  He peels the condom off and ties it up, throwing it in the wastebasket by the bed. Then he takes the corner of the sheet and wipes down Clint’s belly, buying himself time to think.

He can’t avoid the question forever, though, and finally he bites the bullet.  “Um,” he says. “You’re crying.”

“I’m —” Clint starts to repeat, but then he’s brushing his cheek with his fingers, looking at the wetness on them with wide eyes.

“Oh,” he says.  A slow flush washes up his cheeks.  “I’m sorry. Yeah, that’s weird.”

At least it doesn’t seem like anything Bucky did, and he can roll with that.  He settles down at Clint’s side, wrapping an arm around him.

“I don’t mind,” he says.  “As long as — it was good?” he can’t help but check.

Clint nods furiously.  “Yeah, fuck. It was _great_.”

Even as he says it, though, a few more tears trickle down his cheeks.  

“I’m sorry,” he says again, closing his eyes.  He looks mortified, and Bucky’s heart twists.

“Hey.”  He pulls Clint’s head onto his shoulder.  “I don’t buy into that toxic masculinity bullshit.  If you needta cry, you needta cry.” He wraps both arms around Clint.  His social skills may be a little rusty but he can still recognize when someone needs a fucking hug, and Clint seems to need it more than anyone he’s ever known.

Bucky’s arms around him seem to shake something loose inside Clint.  He’s quiet about it, but Bucky can feel him shuddering with silent sobs, tears pooling against Bucky’s shoulder.  Bucky strokes his hair, letting him get it out.

Eventually Clint stops, his breath hitching.  Bucky tries to breathe slow and easy like his therapist taught him, tracing circles on Clint’s back.  Clint’s breathing starts to even out, matching Bucky’s slow inhales and exhales.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles again into the damp skin of Bucky’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it.”  Affection spikes in Bucky and he can’t help himself, pressing a soft kiss against the top of Clint’s head.  “D’you think I made it through losing this arm without cryin’ every now and again? Sometimes you just gotta.”

The words seem to be enough, Clint’s body relaxing against Bucky’s side.  Bucky enjoys the warmth for a moment, and then slides out of bed.

There’s a look on Clint’s face for just a moment, before he closes his eyes and turns on his side, away from Bucky.  He looks _bereft_ , and Bucky suddenly understands a lot more than he did before.

He thinks about it as he finds the bathroom, wetting a washcloth with warm water.  By the time he's back in the bedroom he's made a decision.  He sits back on the bed.  Clint turns toward him, opening his eyes, and Bucky gently wipes the tear tracks off his cheeks.  Clint just watches him, hope and wariness warring in his expression. Bucky traces the washcloth down, wiping Clint’s belly, careful of the bruises over his left side.  Then he takes his hand, running the damp cloth down each finger.

Clint is still watching him, his eyes wide, his mouth lax with surprise.    

When Bucky is out of things to do, he meets Clint’s eyes again.  “Do you want me to go?” he asks.

Clint blinks, a little divot of confusion appearing between his brows.  “You can,” he says.

“I know I _can_ ,” Bucky says.  He reaches out, smoothing the hair back from Clint’s forehead, fingers gentle around the sutures.  “But here’s something else I can do. I can stay here with you tonight. I can take you for breakfast in the morning.  And if we still like each other after that, I can put my number in your phone before I leave. Because I think you’re a good thing, Clint, and I’ve learned not to let go of good things so easy.  And maybe I could be a good thing for you too. What do you think about that?”

Clint blinks again.  Bucky waits him out.

“I think I died on that mission,” Clint finally says, his voice rough.  “Because you gotta be an angel.”

Bucky can feel himself smile, an echoing smile curving across Clint’s lips.  

And Bucky has questions, but they can wait for the morning.  He slides back into bed, pulling Clint into his arms.

He feels Clint exhale with a shudder, and then nestle closer.  He seems as happy to be held as Bucky is to hold him, and Bucky's no liar.  Clint is a good thing, and Bucky already knows that he’s never gonna let him go.

 


End file.
